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holdings had almost completely enveloped the store property.
    Not that Dannar had ever begrudged Orrin success. Dannar had been happy to see someone making use of his ideas—and the fact that it was a friend profiting made it even better. The Calwell and Gault operations were as close as they could be without a legal partnership—which the friends never contemplated, given their mutual contempt for the legal clerks in Bestine. No tax collector had any right to either man’s work. And if Orrin wanted to store his vaporator construction speeders in Dannar’s garages, or if Dannar wanted to range his dewbacks on Orrin’s land, well, they didn’t need a document for that.
    The policy had continued under Annileen, more or less, in the nearly eight years since Dannar passed. The Claim’s spare garages now housed the entire Gault work fleet. And when Orrin took administrative control of the Settlers’ Call Fund he had co-founded with his neighbors, it made perfect sense that the Claim should serve as its operational base. The facility had plenty of room to house the emergency response vehicles owned by the Fund—and if the responders needed an arsenal, they only had to walk next door to find Annileen’s gun racks.
    There was one more thing the Claim had to offer, Orrin knew: the reward for a dangerous job well done. As manager of the Call Fund, Orrin had seen the need and made the provision long ago, and no one had ever argued.
    His was a vigilante organization with a liquor tab.
    “Good stuff here, folks!” Orrin climbed out of his prized USV-5 landspeeder and slapped the hood. The other vehicles were arriving, one by one. “Park the loaners by the garage—we’ll take care of them. And you can drink your fill before the lunch rush!”
    A cheer rose from the growing crowd. Some quickly headed into Dannar’s Claim, but more lingered outside, sharing their stories and trophies. Reminded, Orrin reached into the landspeeder to find his new gaffi stick—or gaderffii, or whatever the savages called the bizarre hunks of metal. The young Tusken cut to pieces in the crossfire had carried this one. Now, with one boot on the bobbing hood of his parked hovercraft, Orrin hoisted the weapon over his head. He gave a war whoop and smiled broadly. Another cheer went up.
    “Let’s hear it for the king of the Jundland!”
    Orrin’s head snapped back at the sound of the feminine voice. Veeka was there, having parked her vehicle behind the others. Young Jabe and a couple of other settlers’ kids were piling off the back of the speeder, rifles in hand. Veeka grinned at her father and shouted again. “Hail to the king!”
    “Don’t call me that,” Orrin growled. He hated the name—and Veeka knew better than to use it. But he heard it again from here and there in the swelling crowd.
    “All hail, king of the Jundland!”
    “No, no. Don’t do that,” Orrin said. He laughed, loudly enough so they could hear him. He knew not to take it seriously. These people weren’t looking for a ruler; it was why half of them were on Tatooine! They needed to know he knew that, too. Orrin leaned the gaderffii against the hood of his landspeeder and raised his hands in humility. “It’s a team effort,” he said, quieting the crowd. “Always. You folks … you saved that farm.”
    His voice rose. “And never, ever forget why we’re doing this. Remember the people that the Tuskens have killed, for no reason at all. People who were just trying to make an honest living. Farmer after farmer—we’ve lost more prospecting knowledge than we can ever appreciate. It’s why we all came together to set up the Settlers’ Call, years ago—to help us take back our lives.”
    He pointed to a tall vaporator tower, rising from the slope to the south of the store. “Up there on top is the very first siren, erected on Dannar Calwell’s Old Number One vaporator. Some of you new folks didn’t know Dannar, but he was the best friend a man—and this